The burning of wood, pieces left in ashes, and smoke clog up the town of Whitesville. The rafted pile of wood, where walls of common folk houses were, remained in ashes now. The tin or bricked roof crashed upon the civilians, the burning blaze touching almost all the people, either left with a burning scar or trapped there to their last breath or the burnings could be healed.
The smoke covered up the dead people like a white-hot veil that, if touched you have to stay there forever and wait in immense pain for the afterlife. Many people were choosing different options. From dense crowed debris area, all people could be saved, but few ones who have the chance to survive either have to stay behind and give up on themselves what's the point of surviving if your family cannot make it out. Another group believes in hope that all can make out, by that time, time ends and they all are trapped and their hopes diminished in despair in agony.
The ones who survived either were pushed by their family members or were not in their right mind and took themselves as a priority and knew that not all of them could make out but still wanted to live, the eyes of fear, rage, and confusion. Another one was those who had no one to hold themselves there, the alone or lonely people with no loved ones left or who got lost in the mayhem.
One of the children who was an orphan since a young age and worked day and night for food and shelter was Helios Kreyara. He had two loved ones but they left in the blaze and by now, their remains are bones he thought. There were tears of sorrow, fear of what would happen next, and death knocking at his door. He is lost in this town which is lost in the haze of fire, it turns into a void, where there is only further blackness and no light. He was eight and thought to stay in the fire to wait for a distinctive path called death.
He stood there, his face dirtied with particles and burn marks. Until, a hand came from behind and grabbed his shoulder's torn cloth, to be now fully showing his shoulder to his arm at one side of the hand. The boy, expression changed from nothingness to cry, just cry and his hands are unhelpful to stop the cry. He was saved, but who?
Before more questions arose, the flame of a chopped wood from a house landed on his arm, making a burn enough, that the skin crinkled up and the boy's dark burnt wood iris widened, in pain and his animal instinct. He thought and felt that moment, death is not easy, it's painful. He made his way to the outskirts of this living, blazing, deserted area, where perhaps only yesterday, the birds chirped, the trees and flowers gave a sense of life and livelihood; the people had their daily gossips and groceries, only be left is ashes.
_________________________To be continued...
508 words,
I will try to make it to 1000 words
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The Wrath Of War
Historical FictionAs the old idiom says, "Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. And, weak men create hard times." It is the time of hardships of wars, anarchy, and plagues that brings despair among humans but never th...
